


Bullet Holes and Gentle Souls

by gaily-daily (passionateartist)



Series: bullet holes [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (laughs wildly), M/M, Yes Fluff, at least for now, billdip if you turn your head squint and use a magnifying glass, fuff, how is there billdip if dipper isn't even in this fic?, i'm ending the angst fest, you read that right, you underestimate me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionateartist/pseuds/gaily-daily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiddleford doesn’t like going into the forest much these days. But that’s all about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullet Holes and Gentle Souls

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third part in the Bullet Holes series so be sure to read the first two fics first! Also, HUGE thanks to theblindtorpedo for helping me come up with the title! You rock!

Stanford would be the first to admit that Bill said the oddest things at times. The demon was cryptic and a bit chaotic, but his obsession with pine trees was almost as equally mysterious Bill himself. 

“Ford why the hell is there a Christmas tree in the house?”

It was 2 in the afternoon and Stanley had finally deigned to roll out of bed to begrudgingly greet the new day only to stop point blank at the sight he was greeted with in the living room. 

“It’s a pine tree.” Stanford deadpans.

“That’s what I just said.”

Stanford glares at him from his chair as his brother were the one at fault. “Bill said something about pines trees ‘being important’ and then stuck it there.”

Stanley stares at him for a moment and looks back at the tree. Then, “Did it have to be on the couch?”

“I can’t move it by myself, Stan!” Stanford snaps impatiently. “Obviously I’ve been waiting here for you to get your lazy butt out of bed and help me get rid of it since Bill’s conveniently disappeared again!”

He doesn’t mention that he’s already removed _three_ from the house already today and he’s fucking sick of them popping up out of nowhere! Especially when he has to go to the bathroom and there’s a bunch of goddamn pine cones in the toilet.

It had been annoying before but now it was turning into a nuisance. Usually Stanford would wake up to tree shaped car-fresheners hanging above his ceiling. Sometimes there would be pine scented cleaner in the kitchen. Not that Stanley ever noticed any of these on-goings of course, as he usually remained oblivious to the happenings around him. The only reason he was noticing now was because Bill had upgraded to actual trees instead of pine scented things.

“You don’t have to yell, sheesh.”

Stanley walks over to the couch to help his brother. Pine needles fall off the branches and coat the floor as they move steadily towards the front door with the tree in tow. They set it down on the porch and move back inside.

“Do you think this has anything to do with our last name?” Stanley asks, masking a yawn. “I mean, you know how he is with pranks. It’s gotta be some sort of jest right?”

Stanford nods at his brother’s words. The logic made sense. Bill _did_ like pranks to the point of ridiculousness. But something about it still didn’t sit with him right.

“I suppose...” he trails off. “Although, he never really says or does anything without meaning. There’s always a cryptic message in-between the lines. Plus he keeps saying that ‘pine trees are important’ or something.”

Stanley makes his way into the kitchen, nodding at his brother’s ramblings but only half-listening. His stomach is demanding food and Stan-cakes sounded amazing right about now. And hey, it might be 2 in the afternoon but in his defense it’s never too late for breakfast food. 

“Well they do surround most of this area after all. Maybe he’s just really pro-environment?” 

Stanford frowns as Stanley bustles through the cabinets for pancake batter.

“Pro-environment? Really Stan? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Okay fine, what do _you_ make of it Mr. Scientist?”

Stanford sighs. “I’m not sure. I just...it just doesn’t feel like a prank, you know?”

“Whatever. They’re just trees.” Stanley, officially done with the conversation, finishes mixing his batter together and throws a dapple of butter into a pan on the stove top.

Stanford rolls his eyes. Leave it to his brother to not care about anything past eating his own face in the form of breakfast food. But he supposes Stanley may have had a point; the tree thing probably didn’t mean anything that majorly important.

Plus the smell of pancakes was making him hungry as well.

“Hey, you think you could make me one of those?” Stanford asks hopefully.

“You already had breakfast! Make your own!” Stanley huffs as he slaps a massive pile of batter into the pan.

“Now who’s the one yelling for no reason?”

“Whatever, poindexter.”

Stanley makes three more Stan-cakes and proudly takes his plate to sit down at the table across his brother. Nothing like a good Stan-cake to hit the spot!

“Well, well, look who’s decided to finally join the land of the living.” Fiddleford wanders into the kitchen at the smell of pancakes.

“Oh lay off it!” Stanley growls, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth and chewing angrily. “A man can sleep in as late as he wants!”

“So do unemployed people with no jobs that mooch off their brothers.”

Stanford snickers at his brother’s glare. Fiddleford makes his way toward the stove and spies some leftover batter. He turns the heat back up and gets the pan hot. Stanley snorts from his place at the table. 

“Making your smiley-cakes again, Fiddlesticks?”

It was a known fact that Fiddleford was not as good at making Stan-cakes as the Pines brothers. Be that as it may, Fiddleford still tried to spice up his pancakes by making them into little smiley faces. 

“It’s better than having your ugly mug on my food.” He snarks back, then turning to Stanford and adding a quick, “No offense.”

“None taken.” 

Stanley rolls his eyes. “Whatever you bunch of nerds.”

Fiddleford turns back to the stove and grabs the pancake batter. He mixes in a little more and he turns to Stanford and smiles politely over at him.

“Stanford would you care for some?”

Stanford blinks, a smile spreading across his face. “Why of course, thank you.”

Stanley watches the exchange with narrowed eyes.

“How many would you like?”

“Just two please.”

The kitchen grows quiet as Fiddleford concentrates on his pancakes. Stanley munches suspiciously on his food as Fiddleford fiddles (heh, heh, _fiddles_ ) with the pancake batter. Some of the syrup drips of his fork onto his shirt unnoticed. Stanford spies the mess before his brother does and smirks at him across the table. Stanley glares harder.

Fiddleford finishes piling on the smiley-cakes and gives two to Stanford. He sits down at the table, keeping three pancakes for himself, and suddenly Stanley can’t take it anymore.

“You’re not actually going to eat all of those.” He glares.

“I’m not?” Fiddleford smiles.

“ _No_. You’re not.” Stanley reiterates. “I know for a fact you have a small stomach and you don’t eat more than two pancakes in one setting. Gimme one of those.”

“I thought smiley-cakes were for nerds?” Fiddleford exchanges a knowing glance with Stanford.

That little nerd was fucking with him. He just knew it.

“You’ve had four cakes already, Stan.” Stanford interjects helpfully.

“Well maybe I’m still hungry!” He snaps.

Fiddleford chuckles, finally relenting to Stanley’s tantrum and placing one of the smiley-cakes onto the man’s plate. “Here. I made it gooey in the middle.”

Stanley immediately perks up. He loved it when pancakes were just a tad bit still gooey in the middle. Unfortunately he could never quite manage it as well as Fiddleford could.  
“Pffft, I knew one of those was for me.” He chomps down on the pancake happily, oblivious to the other two men’s eye rolls.

“So,” Stanford clears his throat in a way that suggests an upcoming delicate topic, “ready for tonight?”

As expected, Fiddleford instantly flushes. “T-tonight? Oh dear, well I’m not quite sure. I mean there’s a lot of stuff I still have to get done: blueprints, spring cleaning, checking the expiration dates in my fridge...”

Stanford frowns. “But I thought you wanted to—“

“Oh lay off the man!” Stanley interrupts. “I always knew he’d chicken out! Too many magical creatures in one place is too scary for a wimp like him!”

Both Fiddleford and Stanford glare over at Stanley. He stops laughing and glances up innocently.

“What?” He asks as bits of food fall from his chin.

Fiddleford cringes. “ _Kindly_ chew with your mouth closed, please! I swear your table manners decrease with every meal.”

“Oh like you’re any better? You’re more hick than any of us!”

“Wha—? What does being a Southerner have to do with table manners?!”

Stanford sighs from his chair. “Just let him be, Fidds. You can’t argue with Stanley logic.”

“Damn straight!” Stanley laughs again and Fiddleford feels like face palming. 

Stanford clears his throat. “But really Fidds, I think you should come! I’ve been gathering intel on this thing and it really does appear to be just a harmless dance for the woodland creatures. Nothing dangerous I promise.”

Fiddleford’s stomach twists in apprehension. He really, _really_ didn’t feel like going. And believe it or not it wasn’t because it was Bill who had told them about the dance in the first place. He actually did have to clean out his fridge sometime this week. 

He looks away from Stanford’s imploring gaze. The man meant well, and Fiddleford appreciated that, but Stanford was also blissfully unaware of what had happened the last time Fiddleford had ventured into the woods. Stanford was far from an idiot. He knew something was up when the engineer had started refusing to go into the forest out of the blue even though he’d accompanied the brothers in on more than one occasion. Stanley had kept up like everything was still normal. The man had been a much better actor than Fiddleford had given him credit for; frighteningly so if he were honest with himself. Stanley had acted as if nothing had even happened. No ground-breaking, life-shattering choices that had led to the events barely over a month ago. Sometimes he wondered if Stanley was really just acting or if the man just really didn’t care.

No. Fiddleford stamps down on the thought before it can ferment in his brain. He knew for a fact that Stanley did care. He was just good at hiding it was all. Besides, it wasn’t like Fiddleford wanted Stanford to know. And he knew without a doubt that if Stanley had been as bad at acting like Fiddleford was, Stanford would have put two and two together faster than he could say _“I had sex with your brother, sorry not sorry.”_

The point being, he’d been uncomfortable going into the woods ever since. And Bill wasn’t helping _at all_. Fiddleford wouldn’t doubt it if the demon somehow knew what had really happened. There had been plenty of suspicious implications. But thankfully Bill was content at just poking fun of Fiddleford’s newfound aversion to the forest. Though he mostly did it while the twins were away. Fiddleford hated being left alone with Bill. But it was either that or go back into the forest and pretend like everything was alright when he felt like he was shattering inside.

Fiddleford realizes with a jolt that he’s fallen silent and Stanford is looking worriedly at him again. Red flushes his cheeks and he coughs awkwardly.

“I don’t rightfully know, Stanford. It’d be a much better use of my time doing other things.”

“You know—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—but it’s good to take a break from work every once in a while.”

“Oh really?” Stanley grins at his brother. “You mean to tell me you’re _not_ going to be frantically writing in your little diaries at this shindig?” 

Stanford frowns. “That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

“Staying cooped up inside and burying yourself in paperwork is one thing. My work takes me _outside_. Big difference.”

“A nerd’s a nerd. Doesn’t matter where he is.”

“Excuse me! I’ll have you know that I—“

As Stanford bickers with his brother, Fiddleford feels a smile spreading shyly across his face. These were the moments he’d missed the most. The ones where everything was fine and he could enjoy the company of his friends. Moments when Stanley would run his mouth and either say or do something stupid resulting in idiotic, but sometimes hilarious, shenanigans. Rare quiet moments, when Fiddleford would sit in his chair and mend Stanley’s shirts (that man went through more clothes than he did beer) while Stanford would write in his Journals as his brother lounged on the couch watching TV.

They had a system. A good system. And frankly Fiddleford liked it quite a lot. This was more than a job. More than an experience. He felt like he was family here.

He’d learned an incredible amount of first aid at an alarming rate due to frequent injuries (most of them Stanley because who punches a _monster_ in the _face_ with their _bare hands_?), and he’s proud to admit that he could probably win a competitive sewing competition at the level he’s at right now. And although most people would find it annoying cleaning up after their disorganized colleague and messy brother, Fiddleford found it relaxing. He liked caring for the Pines brothers. 

But lately he hadn’t been interacting with either of them as much; for obvious reasons. He missed that. He missed being a part of the team. Maybe he _should_ go tonight. Maybe it was time to try and move past what had happened. 

“I’ll go.”

The words are soft against the background of bickering but the twins immediately stop and turn to stare at him openly.

“Really? That’s great!” Stanford looks delighted. “If you need help picking something out to wear just let me know! Bill said that it didn’t really matter if you went formal or not.”

Fiddleford nods at Stanford’s enthusiasm. The man was clearly glad that he was attempting to take his advice on getting out more. He tries to avoid Stanley’s less enthused gaze. The larger man’s eyes are hard yet soft at the same time as they pry at the engineer with a questioning look. Fiddleford doesn’t want to think about what that means. Or if it meant anything at all. Instead, he tries to focus on pushing his pancakes around his plate as Stanford rambles on about tonight. He’s suddenly not so hungry anymore.

After they finish eating Stanford offers to do the dishes and gathers everyone’s plates. Fiddleford chances a glance over at Stanley and spots a tear in his shirt. A spike of annoyance peaks through him.

Seriously? Again?

“Didn’t I mend that three days ago?” Fiddleford’s eyes narrow as Stanley grins at him.

“What? This is my favorite shirt. It just means I like wearing it a lot.”

“And ruining it, it would seem.” He sighs. “Wouldn’t you rather just get a new one? At this point it’s just a rag made up of patches and random stitches. It doesn’t even look like an actual shirt anymore.”

“Well I think the stitches make it look well-loved.” Stanley crosses his arms over his chest.

He probably didn’t mean it as a compliment, but warmth blooms behind Fiddleford’s cheeks nevertheless. Dammit, he really needed to start getting better control of himself!

“R-right, well I can fix it now if you’d like.”

“Okay.”

Stanley follows Fiddleford out of the kitchen into the living room and waits there for Fiddleford to retrieve the sewing kit from the laundry room. The engineer returns shortly and freezes in the doorway. Stanley’s back was to him as he slid the shirt up over his head. He turns back around and smiles disarmingly at the smaller man. Fiddleford swallows. 

“Here.” Stanley stretches out his arm with shirt in hand.

It wasn’t the first time Stanley had casually undressed around him, but it was the first since the incident over a month ago. He was just as ridiculously built as Fiddleford remembered. Stanley was shameless about many things. His body being one of them. He didn’t care who saw him because odds were he looked good at any angle.

And boy did he look fan _tastic_. 

Fiddleford realizes he’s staring and blushes furiously. He snatches the shirt and shuffles into the room to stiffly sit down on the couch and open up his kit. He tries several times to thread his needle before succeeding. 

He can do this. He can act natural. Nothing to it. After all, if Stanley could do it so could he. The man was a surprisingly good actor, but lately Fiddleford felt like Stanley had been returning to his old habits before the incident. Habits of undressing in front of him for instance. He’d never once thought of it as Stanley being insensitive. He was positive it was the man’s way of slowly accepting what had happened and trying to get things back to the way they were before. Fiddleford could appreciate that. He of all people wanted things to be the same between them too.

But, you know, just not like this.

Fiddleford breathes a little easier when Stanley leaves the room to go upstairs. The last thing he needed was for the man to notice his little crush on him. It would help a lot more though if Stanley didn’t act like it was nothing out of the ordinary to get naked around him though. The very least he could do was have some common courtesy. 

Fiddleford stops. Courtesy. Ha. That’ll be the day. He smiles at his own joke and continues sewing. Ugh, this thing really was a wreck. He should just throw it out.

Stanley’s earlier words float through his head and Fiddleford smiles gently. He rubs the fabric between his fingers. Well-loved indeed. Stitches and all. The thought brings a flutter to his stomach as he smiles wistfully down at the garment. Despite all the outward annoyance he portrayed at having to mend Stanley’s shirts like a housewife he didn’t actually mind at all. 

Fiddleford hadn’t known how sew very well until he moved to Gravity Falls and into the Pines twins lives. But he’d subsequently fallen into the category of the designated sewer since between the three of them Fiddleford at least knew how to thread a needle. And he’d be lying if he didn’t say he’d resented Stanley a bit for it at first. After all, he was an engineer not a maid! But then of course he started getting to know Stanley better and then he found didn’t mind so much. (And no he’s never sneaked a whiff of any of Stanley’s shirts. Of course not. Why would he smell another man’s shirt?)

Back then, in those early days of when they were still learning how to interact around each other, Fiddleford had once flat out refused to stitch Stan’s ‘smelly, old shirt’ and thrown it back in the man’s face. It backfired almost immediately when Stanley walked around shirtless the next few days in protest. (“If I can’t wear my favorite shirt I’m not gonna wear anything!”) Fiddleford’s resolve broke on the third day at the sight of Stanley Pines fresh out of the shower. The man’s wet muscles and gleaming chest had had  
Fiddleford’s insides turning in ways that questioned his very sexuality.

He really should have known back then that Stanley Pines would be nothing but trouble.

A shadow falls on the wall across from him and his smile fades. Dread replaces the fluttering in his stomach and he sucks in a small breath. The shadow shifts and morphs into a gruesome creature with sharp teeth ready to tear his skin from his bones. Fiddleford pushes down the panic and licks his dry mouth.

“Stop it, Bill. I know you’re there.” His voice is a tiny squeak, but he manages the sentence all the same.

The shadow shifts again; this time into a triangle with a cane and top hat. Though in Fiddleford’s opinion this shape was much more fearsome than the one before it.

“Aw cΔme on, I wΔs just hΔving a little fun!”

Fiddleford had never liked Bill and he suspected he never would. He forever curses the day Stanford met the demon. He didn’t really understand the logistics of what had transpired between the two, but he understood enough to know that Stanford had apparently made a deal with Bill that allowed the demon to somehow piggyback off of Stanford’s ‘energy’ and slip through the mindscape into the real world. In return Bill helped Stanford catalogue the mysterious creatures and anomalies of Gravity Falls. 

Fiddleford accidentally pricks his finger on the needle and winces. Sighing internally he stands up to go search for the first aid kit. Unfortunately Bill follows him; trailing behind like a silent ghost. Or at least until he opens his metaphorical mouth.

“You knΔw, this reminds me of thΔt one stΔry you humΔns like so much! The one with the princess pricking her finger Δn a SPinNIng wHeEL?”

If he were a braver man Fiddleford would growl at the demon to get on with his point, or better yet, go bother someone who actually wanted him around. But he wasn’t. So he said nothing.

“Except then Mr. MoustΔche came alΔng and _RUINED_ it!” he cries indignantly.

“How did he ruin it?” Fiddleford winces as the words leave his tongue. He really should stop taking Bill’s bait and just ignore him. 

“The Δriginal ending wΔs WΔY better! Sleeping BeΔuty doesn’t awΔken from a dumb mouth mΔsh! Originally the king rΔpes her in her sleep and—nine months lΔter—she gives birth to two flesh bΔgs! One of them sucks her finger and remΔves the piece of flax that had been keeping her under and BΔM she wΔkes up!” 

Fiddleford blinks, not knowing what to say. “That....that’s horrible.” 

“I KNow riGHt?! Isn’t it just so much mΔre fun?” 

“Yes.” He says cautiously as he reaches for a band-aid from the first aid kit. “Being raped is much more fun than true love’s first kiss. You’re right.” 

Bill never said stuff like this around the others. It was one of the reasons he was much more frightened of the demon than Stanford or Stanley were. It drove him crazy trying to figure out if Bill was just messing with him, or if he really did have more sinister intents. Stanford seemed convinced Bill was a friend. And if that was true then Bill’s little spouts here and there really were just harmless teasing (even if it was downright creepy). But if Bill was pretending... 

Fiddleford shivered. He didn’t like to think down that train of thoughts. Stanford was a good judge of character. He trusted him. 

As Fiddleford wraps the band-aid around his cut he catches Bill staring at him thoughtfully. Or, at least close to it. There was a glint in his eye that didn’t seem quite right. He swallows. 

“Yes?” 

Fiddleford desperately wishes someone would come in right now and interrupt them. He didn’t like the way Bill was staring at him. 

Bill snaps his fingers suddenly and glows energetically with the light of an epiphany. “I’ve gΔt it!” 

“G-got what?” His legs scream for him to bolt but he stays rooted in spot. 

“That humΔn phrΔse! I finally geT it! You know, the one with the fiddle and plΔying it?” 

“W-what? The fid—wait you mean the ‘I could play you like a violin’ phrase?” 

“Yeah thΔt one! Your nΔme is like the violin right?” 

“The fiddle and the violin are two different things.” 

Bill, ignoring Fiddleford, plows on with a giddy and booming voice. 

“So bΔsically, if I crΔck open your throΔt and strum your heΔrtstrings, I’d be ‘plΔying a fiddle like a violin!’ HΔ! Get it?” 

Bill suddenly shifts, his entire demeanor losing its playful glow, and the demon grows unnaturally quiet. He stares openly back at Fiddleford, his single eye wide and glowing with knowledge of the entire universe. 

Fiddleford’s heart thumps loudly in his chest. The air is suddenly too heavy to breath and he stumbles backwards. 

“I’m g-gonna go c-check on the—u-um, something.” 

Bill watches Fiddleford scramble out the doorway and then cheerfully calls out to the rapidly retreating man’s back. 

“Nice talking to yΔ, Fidds!” 

Bill’s laughter follows Fiddleford into the bathroom. He slams the door shut and slides down the other side to the floor; oblivious to anything but the hammering of his own heart. 

* 

When he gets to the door he can already hear the boisterous laughter of Stanley coming from inside. Fiddleford doesn’t bother knocking (Stanford had insisted there was no need between friends) and braces himself before stepping inside. 

The TV is blasting AFV and Stanley is laughing at the images of people falling down the stairs. Bill sits perched atop the chair, laughing along. It figured that the two of them would bond over the pain of others. He’d never understand what was so funny about someone getting hurt. Well, maybe Bill because he was a demon. 

Stanford rolls his eyes at the pair from the couch as he tries to organize his notes. Fiddleford felt the man’s pain. It was hard to work when you had not one, but two obnoxious people ruining your concentration. 

He pushes down the rise of uneasiness Bill always created within him and clears his throat awkwardly. Stanford spots him from the couch and his face breaks into a grin. 

“Oh good! You’re here! I was afraid you weren’t going to make it for a minute there!” 

Fiddleford curls in on himself as he remembers almost turning the car around and driving back to the safety of his apartment. 

“Nope. Still going.” _Unfortunately._

Stanford stands up and walks over to clasp his shoulder good-naturedly. “Well, I’m glad you are! Trust me, this thing is going to be amazing!” 

He turns to yell at his brother. “Oi! Turn that thing off and let’s go! Fidds is here!” 

“Alright, alright! Don’t get your panties in a twist!” 

Reluctantly, Stanley turns off the program and stands up to stretch. It’s at this point Fiddleford finally notices what he’s wearing. The man had thrown on a pair of worn jeans and a faded black button down (actually buttoned, mind you) with a gray tank top underneath. Fiddleford was used to seeing Stan in worn, ragged t-shirts. But something about seeing him in black with slicked back hair was doing unnecessary things to his stomach. 

Fiddleford himself had settled for his trusty old sweater vest and tie. Not particularly acceptable at formal dinner parties, but he doubts a hoedown in the woods is going to be formal. Stanley on the other hand was still wearing his ever present brown jacket, not even bothering to change into anything else. Fiddleford doubts he’ll ever see the man out of it at this point. 

Bill floats up next to Stanford who has already devolved into a bundle of excited nerves. 

“We’re all ready! Lead the way, Bill!” Stanford gestures to the door. 

“Δlrighty then! Everyone follow me!” 

Fiddleford swallows down the rising bile in his throat and prays he doesn’t throw up. He feels more and more sick as the group approaches the forest. Maybe he could fake some stomach pains and go back inside the house. It wouldn’t be far from the truth in all honesty. 

But before he can say anything they’re all walking past the outer trees and into the woods. Fiddleford feels his throat freeze up and he stiffly walks behind everyone. Bill’s golden glow lights up the pathway as they travel deeper into the forest. The sun hadn’t completely set yet, but in the shade of the trees it was darker than Fiddleford was used to. He’d never been in the woods at night. Stanford on the other hand walks triumphantly forward ahead of the group. He says something to Bill but Fiddleford doesn’t catch it. Probably just asking questions about the nature of the dance again. He looks out among the brush to the darker corners of the forest. It looked so still in the light of the sunset. 

Fiddleford feels eyes upon him and looks up to catch Stanley’s gaze. He was giving him that weird look again that Fiddleford couldn’t decipher: concern and confusion, and—something else. He breaks away, hands curling in at his sides. Fiddleford feels an irrational spike of irritation at Stanley. Why did he have to keep looking at him like that? What did he want? Stanley always spoke his mind about whatever he was thinking, so why wasn’t he saying anything now? 

They continue trekking through the forest for an indefinite amount of time (filled with Stanford’s excited jabbering, Stanley’s jibes, and Bill’s you-humans-are-so-amusing comments) before they finally see lights up ahead. Fiddleford can hear music—familiar music—which surprises him because despite the fact this was a dance he assumed there would be some sort of supernatural band and not a radio playing today’s top hits. 

As they approach the scene Fiddleford is momentarily awed by the sight of the gigantic tree that sits in the middle of a large clearing. Woodland creatures of all shapes and sizes have gathered all around it. The tree itself was beautifully lit with fireflies sitting on every branch and leaf, illuminating the entire area. 

From what he could see there were gnomes, werewolves, fairies, nymphs, trolls, cervitaurs, many other creatures he knew by name and even more he didn’t. Off to the right Fiddleford spots an entity with fluffy, white wings and several potion bottles strapped around his waist. The figure sat in the back of a truck (how did he get a truck out here?) and it hit Fiddleford that the music was coming from the vehicle. Huh, well now he’s seen everything. 

“Who’s that?” He wonders aloud. 

Stanford’s journal is already out and he’s frantically scribbling down notes on a new blank page. His eyes are wild with unrestrained glee as he practically vibrates with joy. 

“It’s the Love God!” He says breathlessly. “I have so many questions for him!” 

He’s gone before Fiddleford can ask who the heck the Love God was. Stanley walks up beside him and shakes his head after his brother. 

“Should’ve known he wouldn’t be interested in actually dancing—whoa! Well, hell _o_ there!” 

Stanley eyes a half-naked nymph dancing over by the tree and he looks back at Fiddleford to give him a wink. The smaller man squeaks as Stanley pats him on the shoulder before sauntering off after his latest conquest. 

Fiddleford sighs as he watches him go. He opts to stay behind and lean back against a tree. He settles down to an evening of watching everyone else having a good time. He knew this would happen. He had no one to blame but himself. 

“Δren’t you going to go find a dΔncing mΔte?” 

Fiddleford launches himself off the tree with a startled jolt. He stumbles as he turns around to find the demonic triangle watching him in amusement. Bill laughs. 

“ThΔt’ll never get old! You humΔns are so eΔsy to scΔre!” 

Fiddleford frowns. He leans back against the tree, ignoring the demon. Bill will have to get his own perch because he’s already claimed this one for the night. 

“WeLL?” 

“Well what?” 

“Why hΔven’t you chosen a mΔte for the evening yet?” 

Fiddleford groans inwardly. Why couldn’t Bill just go bother Stanford? He’s sure the man would appreciate the demon’s company more than he did. 

“Do you have to word it like that?” 

“Well considering this little shindig used to be for finding a mΔte for spring—reproduction and bΔbies and all thΔt—but then it kinda evolved into a mid-summer dΔnce thing! Scheduling issues or somΔthing. But thΔt was waaaaaay before they even had a snΔck bar!” 

Fiddleford stops. “Wait, what?!” 

“I know right? Who has a dΔnce without a snΔck bar?” 

“No! The part about mating!” Fiddleford says in frustration. 

“Hmm? Oh, yeΔh sure! Though if you Δsk me the whole sexuΔl reproduction thing you meΔt sticks go through is _weird_. You just sweΔt all over eΔch other and try to swΔllow each other’s sΔliva—which is incredibly POINTless by the wΔy..." 

But Fiddleford has already tuned Bill out. He stares back across the clearing at Stanley and the nymph he was currently grinding against. He watches the way Stanley slides his hands over her naked stomach and clenches his teeth. He feels incredibly childish as he angrily stomps off towards the ‘snack bar’ as Bill had dubbed it (though a lot of the things looked quite questionable and Fiddleford swears half of the ‘food’ was moving). After all, Stanley was a grown man. He could dance with whoever he wanted. Petty jealousy was for high-schoolers and Fiddleford was completely fine with this. He was fine. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m FINE dammit!” 

The momentary anger that had previously coursed through his veins was suddenly swallowed up in the mounting embarrassment that crashed through him now. 

“M-my goodness, I’m so terribly sorry!” He stammers at the poor creature he’d just yelled at. “I was just, um...I, uh—“ He apologizes lamely, looking determinedly at the ground. 

To his surprise, he hears a chuckle from above and looks back up to see the other man smiling brightly at him. Moss covered the left side of his (its?) face and his eyes were completely black. His arms and torso appeared wooden but flexible. Fiddleford isn’t quite sure what the man is exactly but he figures it’s probably a bit rude to ask so he says nothing. 

“It’s—fine. You—looked tense.” The man’s speech was slow and deep, with a rumbling that eased Fiddleford’s nerves. “I wanted—to help. Maybe with—dance?” 

His sentences were short, more simple in speech. Fiddleford can feel the blush creep up the back of his neck and up to his cheeks. For a supernatural creature he was extremely polite. He felt even worse for snapping at him now. 

“I...” Several excuses of how to politely say no flit through the front of his mind and he stops. Why did he want to say no anyway? What else was he going to do? Stand off to the side and angrily glare at all the other happy couples? 

“S-sure.” He stutters, wondering if he’ll ever be able to talk without stumbling over his sentences like a grade-schooler. 

The man takes his hand—it felt oddly wooden in nature—and leads him over to the flat patch of grass that served as the dance floor. He tenses slightly when a hand encircles his waist and he tries to breath out all the tension in his nerves. 

“Do you—have name?” 

“Hm? Oh, it’s Fiddleford.” 

“Rix.” The man smiles. 

They don’t dance so much as sway to the music. Rix was very graceful; slow yet precise. Fiddleford slowly finds himself relaxing. 

“You want—to know—what I am—yes?” 

Fiddleford blushes. “W-well, I don’t mean to pry.” 

“It’s—fine.” Rix reassures gently. “I am—tree shifter. There is—little—of us left.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t—be. We prefer—to live—in solitude.” 

Fiddleford briefly wonders what it must be like. To live your entire life in isolation, never seeing one of your own kind, and only the plants and animals to keep you company. 

He relaxes further in Rix’s steady grip. There was something calm and soothing about him. Sturdy, yet gentle. Kind of like a tree, he thinks ironically. He wonders if Stanford had any information about tree shifters in his Journal. Did they all possess a slow pattern of speech? Or was that just Rix? 

Movement catches the corner of his eye and Fiddleford glances over Rix’s shoulder. He’s momentarily startled to see Stanley staring right back at him. Or rather at them. He’s glaring hard at where Rix’s hand holds Fiddleford against him. A heat sparks in Fiddleford’s belly and he quickly glances away. 

A ‘mating’ dance Bill had called it. He frowns. Just because that had been its original purpose didn’t mean that all the creatures here still practiced that. Rix was probably just looking for some companionship. Besides, he didn’t even know if his species reproduced asexually or not. 

They sway for a little while longer and by the end of the song Fiddleford decides to excuse himself in favor for a cup of water. He approaches the snack bar and eyes it warily. Well at least the water was bottled. He wasn’t about to chance some magical creature spiking his drink with weird, supernatural voodoo. Before he can take a bottle of water, however, a hand extends itself in front of his face and Fiddleford jumps back startled. He looks down to find the hand attached to an ugly looking troll-like creature covered head to toe in dead leaves. But that wasn’t what had startled Fiddleford. Oh no. It was what was held in its hand. 

“For a good time?” The troll smiles widely with yellowed teeth. “Real cheap!” 

Fiddleford stares in abject horror at the plant. The very plant that had practically ruined his relationship with Stan. 

“N-no thank you.” He manages to say, and stumbles backwards in retreat from the creature. He guns for the tree-line, ducking behind a row of bushes, and proceeds to have a nervous breakdown. 

He _knew_ this had been a bad idea! He’d known all along and yet he still came. He really needed to stop giving in to Stanford’s puppy-eyes. 

As Fiddleford tries to get his breathing under control the universe decides to take a shit on him when someone interrupts him from behind. A particular someone whom Fiddleford very much didn’t want to see. 

“What’cha doing over here, nerd? Party’s back that way.” 

Great. This was perfect. Just fan _tastic_. 

“Shouldn’t you be with your new lady friend?” Fiddleford asks icily. He just wants to be left alone right now. Better yet, maybe he’ll just slip away and head back home while no one’s watching. 

Stanley frowns. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“What’s wrong with _you_?” He snaps. Okay, not the greatest comeback in the world but he was tired alright? He couldn’t really think up anything to say right now past _‘I’ve loved you for the longest time and it kills me more and more everyday, but I’m scared and I don’t know how to tell you.’_

Stanley narrows his eyes. Then he sighs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it.” He mutters to himself. 

_Excuse me?_

“Excuse me? What was that?” He hisses and crosses his arms. “I can’t handle _what_ , Stanley?” 

Stanley immediately backs down at the other’s glare. “What? No! I wasn’t trying to insult you! I just knew that you might not feel comfortable going to this thing and I was just mad that I didn’t step in sooner to stop you from coming!” 

The logical part of Fiddleford’s brain accepts Stan’s explanation. Even softens at the man’s confession. But the irrational part just wants to punch something. And lucky him, Stan’s face was in view. 

“Why don’t you just mind your own business and leave me alone!” He shoves past the man and angrily rejoins the dance despite the fact he’d been contemplating leaving just a moment ago. He refuses to look back at Stanley as he seeks Rix out for another dance. 

* 

Fiddleford doesn’t know many songs they’ve danced to, but talking to Rix was doing wonders to ease his earlier frustration. It was as if Rix emulated the quiet and openness of the forest itself—again, _Tree Shifter,_ Fiddleford has to remind himself. 

“Alright, everyone having a good time?” The Love God’s voice fills the clearing and several shouts and cheers are offered in answer. “That’s good! Well, I just wanted to share this extra special mix tape for all you people with an extra special someone! This one’s for you!” 

There’s a pause as the Love God puts in the tape and then the sounds of guitar strings fill the air. The melody floats through the clearing, whispering promises and gentle winding through his veins. Fiddleford taps his feet to the rhythm. This song was definitely one of his favorites. 

He’s so busy listening to the song that he doesn’t notice someone approaching them. Fiddleford looks up to see Stanley awkwardly looking between the two of them. The man clears his throat with a strained cough. 

“Do—uh—do you wanna dance? I mean, you’re dancing already—obviously—and it’s fine if you don’t want to dance with someone else—,” 

Fiddleford blinks as Stanley rambles on. Stanley Pines, _the_ Stanley Pines, was actually rambling. His eyes keep darting away from Fiddleford’s as he talks, and the engineer can do nothing but stare in confused bewilderment. Finally, Stanley runs an exasperated hand through his hair—ruffling the strands and making Fiddleford’s mouth go dry—and settles for a half annoyed half resigned look. He holds out his hand, palm up and looks into straight into Fiddleford’s eyes. 

“May I have this dance?” 

Somewhere in the distance, the lyrics pick up and the vocals waft through the night air. 

_Take you baby by the hand—  
And make her do a high handstand_

The only light in the clearing aside the moon and stars were the thousands of tiny lightening bugs that clung to the tree and floated through the air. And as Fiddleford looks up from Stan’s outstretched palm and past the curious red dusting his cheeks, his very breath catches. There was a soft glow clinging around the edges of the taller man. It caught in the dark locks of Stanley’s hair and illuminated the gentle brown in his eyes. 

Fiddleford never stood a chance. 

“Okay.” It comes out as a soft, reverent whisper. 

Relief washes over Stan’s face and is replaced within a single instant with one of quiet happiness. 

“Okay.” He smiles back. 

_And take your baby by the heel—  
And do the next thing that you feel_

Fiddleford gives him a nervous smile and he swears he sees Stanley’s hand shake just before he places his own hand within in it. Stan’s fingers curl around his own and his heart shoots into his throat. He breathes out a shaky breath and turns his head away from Stan’s piercing gaze. He spots Stanford eyeing them both from over the top of his Journal and Fiddleford feels his face heat up. 

Stanford had been adding in small notes about the dance—its history, where it was held, who attended, etc.—but he does a double take at the sight of his brother leading Fiddleford out on the dance floor. He considers calling out to them for a brief moment, but then something flashes in the corner of his eye and he turns his head to find Bill floating beside him staring just as intently at the pair as he’d been. Despite the lack of a face, Bill actually managed to look confused and simultaneously fascinated. Perhaps Bill was still trying to figure out how human relationships worked? 

Stanford writes it down. Could be useful later. 

Meanwhile, Fiddleford tries to focus on not freaking out. Stanford watching them was one thing, but he didn’t know if he could handle Bill staring at them. 

_Don’t think about. Don’t think about. Don’t think about it._

But then Stanley takes Fiddleford’s hands, placing his own on the engineer’s waist, and pulls the smaller man to his chest. Fiddleford suddenly doesn’t care if the whole town was watching. The gentle beat lulled his worried thoughts until the only thing he could register was the color of Stan’s eyes in the pale light. 

_We were so in phase—  
In our dance hall days_

Stanley twists him around and pulls him back in. A light-hearted laugh bubbles up Fiddleford’s throat. For the first time in weeks he feels truly happy. The forest had done nothing but provide worry and terror for him whenever he’d trudged through it with the Pines brothers, but he’s never felt so at home now. 

_We were cool on craze—_  
_When I, you and everyone we knew—_  
_Could believe, do, and share in what was true_

They dance well past after the song ends, and for many others after that; neither noticing the late hour or the passing of time. They keep dancing through the night, content with the warmth in each other’s hands, and the chorus of that first song they’d danced to still resounding in their ears. 

_I said:  
Dance hall days love!_

* 

Carrying a drunken Stanley Pines home was a difficult but not impossible task. Although with the amount of times Stanley stumbled to a stop and burst out laughing (“Look at that bush! Holy shit, Fidds are you _seeing_ this bush right now?”), it was a wonder Fiddleford and Stanford were able to get him home at all. 

For the record Fiddleford had advised Stanley against from drinking whatever weird concoction that served as alcohol at the snack bar. But Stanley, of course, had taken it as a challenge and had downed three cups. Fiddleford supposed they should be grateful that it had only gotten Stanley drunk and not—say—grown an extra head or something. 

They stumble in through the door and Stanley burps loudly followed by another laugh. 

“Fidds, hey—hey Fiiiiiiiidds!” Stan grins at him and Fiddleford’s heart twists. 

“I’ll put him to bed.” Stanford says in a resigned voice. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got it.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, it’s nothing I’m not used to. I had plenty of practice in college after all.” He offers a small smile and Stanford nods. 

“Well you’re welcome to the guest bedroom if you want.” Stanford says as he detangles himself from his brother. 

Both Pines had offered multiple times for Fiddleford to move in. Stanford was more subtle about it than his brother; commenting on the cost effective ways of living with a roommate as well as the benefits of living in a house and not a cramped apartment. 

Stanley on the other hand would outright ask Fiddleford why he hadn’t moved in yet as if offended that the engineer was still refusing to move out of his apartment. But Fiddleford had his reasons—mostly revolving around the man he was currently helping stand up—nevertheless he still slept over on occasions. 

He bids Stanford a goodnight and heads down the hall towards Stanley’s room. Thank god it was on the first floor, he was positive he’d never get Stanley up the stairs. They stumble into the room, aiming for the bed. Fiddleford tries to navigate the larger man onto the mattress, however, Stanley grabs Fiddleford, wrapping his arms tightly around his middle, and falls back onto the bed with him in tow. Fiddleford squeaks in surprise at the new position but Stan only sighs in contentment against him. 

Fiddleford feels his body responding terrifyingly fast. What with the dancing, the laughing, the way Stanley looked at him in under the tree, he was too emotional charged right now. He squirms in Stan’s grasp, praying that the other man doesn’t notice the reason for his distress. 

Just as he manages to wiggle out enough to breathe, Stan turns his head and mumbles something into his hair about Vanessa and Carlos. Fiddleford stills for a moment and allows himself a tired smile. It was a well-known secret that the big, bad Stanford Pines enjoyed soap dramas. Loved them actually. You weren’t allowed to mention it to his face though because then he’d devolve into a 12 year old and start _throwing things_ to prove he was too macho for girly shows. 

“Why can’t she just confess her love for him?!” Stan whines in Fiddleford’s ear. “It’s so obvious to everyone else!” 

Something warm unfurls in Fiddleford’s chest. He stays silent for a moment and then, “Maybe she’s scared he’ll realize that she’s not good enough for him one day.” 

“Of course she’s good enough!” Stanford pulls back to look at him scandalously. “She’s the only one who’s ever had the courage to talk back to him! It’s true love dammit!” 

Fiddleford chuckles. “Okay, okay. It’s true love.” 

Stan nods in content, happy to have someone agree with him. He hugs Fiddleford closer, sliding a hand down the engineer’s back in a slow and soothing manner. Fiddleford freezes in quiet terror as the hands travel lower. But then Stan’s breathing slowly evens out as he soon falls asleep next to him. 

Fiddleford know he ought to detangle himself and retreat back to the guest bedroom, but Stanley felt so warm and safe. Just this once, Fiddleford decided, he could at least allow himself this. 

* 

At some point late in the afternoon Stanley stumbles into the kitchen and face plants onto the table. 

“Oh god,” he moans, “How drunk was I last night?” 

“Not sure,” Stanford says in an entirely amused tone, “but you kept stealing sticks off the ground and trying to use them to call 8675309.” 

_“Oh god.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I always imagined a magical forest and creatures dancing under the stars whenever I heard the song Dance Hall Days. I love that song and just had to include it!
> 
> Fun fact: this was originally intended as a prequel. I actually debated for an entire week on whether or not to write it as such too. But I knew if I went ahead and wrote this as a prequel then I’d never make an actual sequel where my boys had a least one happy moment together before everything went to shit. Like, I want them to suffer but I also want them to be happy, you know? And so I decided to ultimately change this to a sequel instead and let them have a semi-happy ending.


End file.
